


The Joker's Cards

by Daeva_Labeija



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), South Park
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-16 23:39:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5845399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daeva_Labeija/pseuds/Daeva_Labeija
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Joker is out of commission, and it's at this time that he realizes that death is a very real thing that can stop him. In comes a child who doesn't die, and it's like a whole new world has been introduced to the Joker. The possibilities got him thinking about more and more ideas for chaos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

1

Dark, somewhat damp, and the room practically in shambles. Cracks lined the walls and ceiling and a monotonous drip, drip, drip noise was the only sound in it. It might have been abandoned. Or the previous owners were threatened to leave it. It should be deserted, it being so unkempt. But it wasn’t empty. Tucked in what would be called ‘the bad part of the city’, with failing street lights and roads with potholes and run-over animals scattered everywhere. The old train tracks visible when one looks out the only window is almost cliche.

A groan. Throaty, loud, forced. Like how one would groan in boredom when watching a dated mandatory safety video. The shuffling of sheets and then heavy footsteps thudded and the floor creaked. With closed eyes he goes for the bathroom. Blood soaked bandages were left on the bed.

Another groan. Louder, but smoother this time. Since he just gargled something acidic. The comical sound of the toilet flushing resounded in the crumby bedroom. And he walks heavily to the window, the only light source the room has, and drinks the same thing he used as mouthwash a while ago while viewing the city outside.

“I’m so bored.” A declaration. It’s end marked by the disturbing licking noises he subconsciously makes. He took a last swig of his drink and threw the empty bottle to the floor. Then he made his way back to his bed to sit on it, slowly, being careful that his only barely healed cuts would reopen.

He looked down on his torso with a frown, already detesting the fact that he’d be locked in here for a while for recovery, lest he wanted to risk dying outside by excessive bleeding when he rips himself open due to strain.  A sigh escaped his lips in realization.

“Who’d have thought...” He started, and already he was licking his lips and the inside of his scarred cheeks. “...That I’d feel this much loneliness?” He pouted almost childishly after hearing himself admit it.

“And I’ve found myself bored with everyone I already know.” He kept filling the room with his always theatrical-sounding voice. “This is a dilemma.” He continued while wrapping his torso up with fresh bandages. That being quite the feat since some of his fingers were lodged in awkward angles. “How should I handle this?” He referred to his state of loneliness rather than his awful physical condition. When he finished he stared only ahead, not in anything in particular, his mind going a million miles a second. And it ended when he winced like a dagger was just plunged through his heart. “Damn it!” His anger and annoyance flared. He couldn’t do something about the dagger of realization that hit him. He couldn’t take it out since there wasn’t really a concrete one to pull out. He hated pain that didn't bleed. He hated it because you can't tell if you're healing or getting worse. And so his anger and annoyance flared hotter.

To distract himself, he had liquor. He used to, at least, since the last of it was consumed just a while ago. Without that to calm him, his anger and annoyance flared even hotter.

He stood up from his bed and walked around like there was something to look at in the crumbling room and went to the only place there that offered anything. The window. He looked down, his expression utterly bored, but he looked menacing still with the Glasgow grin permanent on his face. His still bruised face and cut up torso completed the Halloween look.

There was nothing new to look at. There was the street the house he’s in overlooks. It was ugly and dirty all the time. With street vendors making it look even more dirty than it already is. The other houses were abandoned or maybe used as a hide out or a storehouse of some sort. From his second floor view, he couldn’t really see people’s faces all that well. Only hats or hoods or hair and foreheads.

It was around five in the afternoon, which meant it was already starting to get dark. That meant that people who mean no harm should be getting to their homes now and that was somewhat the scene that he could see. Children and teenagers with their backpacks brisk walking or even running home. Women walking cautiously and wearing very boring and modest clothes. What look like breadwinners walking with somewhat worried expressions while clinging on their belongings. All these filtered out of the streets in minutes, replaced by darkly clad people all in groups. And they flit in and out of his perspective here and there. Some in the shadows, some openly trotting along kicking trash cans and smoking like chimneys. The street was about to get dirtier and he was sure, less morally upright. From his room he already heard a gun shot somewhere. But he wasn’t so sure if he imagined it or if it came from somewhere in the street that he couldn’t see.

As the sky grew darker, so did the rest of the costumes of the only people outside. Black, black, black. Some grey here and there. The shine of silver metal sometimes. But black was always the dominant one. He didn't get why that color was the choice of the lower kind of scum everywhere. It didn't seem menacing at all to him. In fact, if you want to scare people, look really bright and cheery for it. Just so you can rub it in their face that you are having fun. With black, it's like you're brooding for their sorrow. And that's lame. Unfun and unfunny even.

There were some punks fooling around right on the train tracks, clad in awful black but he appreciated their neon hair very much. Their brains were probably as neon as their hair too, with them laughing like mad and pointing at each other with their beer bottles. These same train tracks were littered with odd-looking soil and all kinds of trash. And they were kicking them around. Gooey. Slippery. Probably stinky.

Then came a cheer from one of the punks, something like ‘Check this out!’ and she held out a dirty fleshy something that was rod-shaped and laced with muck.

Shouts of ‘Sick!’, ‘Cool!’ and ‘No way!’ from the punks annoyed him very much.

The punk cleaned the carnage she picked up the best she could and used it to tap another punk in the shoulder. ‘I wonder who tapped you?’ She asked playfully and then ran in circles while waving around the severely disfigured rotting arm.

He was getting sick of the punks making noise and being stupid. He wished that the old train that only very rarely came by would pass by and just add a new layer of carnage on the train tracks already.

He sighed at the mundane scenes he was seeing. And forced to only see unless he recovers quickly. He scanned what part of the city he could see one last time, half-expecting to see something even a little bit interesting.

And he was given something.

When everything he could see was bleak and monochromatic. There was a flash of color that was almost an eyesore. But he appreciated eyesores very much so he unconsciously smiled at this fellow clad in stark orange.

The orange fellow was a kid, if his height was any indication. Possibly twelve or something. Very young. And frail looking.

Upon walking closer to his view he could see that he was wearing a rather dirty orange parka with brown fur. His pants matched his parka exactly. He was wearing brown shin-high leather boots. With what audacity this kid had walking down this street at this time of night, and with what nerve this kid had to seemingly parade here clad in that atrocious attire, and with what gall this kid had to sashay down that street like he was a supermodel... Whatever that what is, he liked it very much.

The punks on the train tracks seem to think otherwise. As the boy struts along all carefree, they darted to him immediately and then surrounded him.

‘D’ fuck d’ya think ya are?’, ‘What’chu doin’ here?’ and other drawls of weak threats resounded in the empty street. And when he expected the orange clad boy to fall in his knees and beg to be let go, he was pleasantly disappointed. He didn’t do that.

He remained standing, just looking at the punks like they didn’t deserve to ruin his catwalk. He was silent but you could feel there was no fear in his stance.

The orange clad boy was confident.

Some of the punks took out a weapon of sort, a dagger, a kitchen knife, a switch blade.

The orange clad boy was about to die.

He didn’t realize it but he was gripping the window sill so hardly, that his broken fingers cracked noisily. He was also nearly bending down over the sill, wanting to hear better and see clearer of what will happen.

‘What’chu smilin’ for?’ At that he heard the boy giggle a bit.

‘You’re dead!’ Some punk lunged at him with his kitchen knife held out awkwardly. It hit its target nonetheless and red stained orange.

He stabbed the boy in the neck and dragged the knife down, allowing blood to spill quickly all over his orangeness and on the dirty road where he now lies. The boy’s lifeless body was left right there in the middle of the street. And the punks went back to their train tracks playing or something. He wasn't too concerned. He only looked at the very bloody boy on the ground. He could see rats the size of cats gathering near him, nibbling at what they could. Nasty.

But for a few seconds there, that kid was full of life. And at the face of his death he didn’t just seem confident. He seemed to have wanted that death. He welcomed it. And that is the best way to go. He asked for it. He looked like he knew exactly where he was going and what will happen to him right after dying. He was so sure. It was beautiful.

“Beautiful.” He let out, still gripping the window sill. And when he realized he was torturing his fingers, he let go and walked away from his view of the corpse being scavenged by rats.

He went to lie down on his bed again and after dry-swallowing some pain killers he willed himself to sleep. He was lonely a while ago. Then he was lonely and mad. Now he was lonely, mad and sad. He whined bitterly and unintelligibly until he was too tired to keep it up. At least he had a little sunshine that day. A little sunshine that he wasn't ashamed to admit to have made him aroused even when under so much pain.

He was so sad that somebody that just piqued his interest so much is so dead now. Then again, he thought, 'if he hadn't died, he probably wouldn't have caught my attention this bad.' Those were the last thoughts running through his mind as he fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

2

When he woke up, the sun told him that it was late afternoon already. He groggily stood up, wincing as he stretched his torn flesh unintentionally.

“Fuck.” Gritty. Angry. He felt awful. Much worse than yesterday. 

His heavy footsteps thudded dully as he went to the bathroom to splash water on to his face and drink as well. He looked at the mirror and studied himself. He was paler than usual. And he could swear his vision was blurry. 

He let out a loud groan, coming to the conclusion that he has a fever that was due to infection. But that was just his guess.

He pulled the bandages on his torso away and didn’t bother to redo it with a new one. He thought it'd be good for it to get some fresh, polluted city air anyway.

It may only be the work of his subconscious, but the first thing he wanted to do was to check if the orange clad dead boy from yesterday was still there. This place was that bad that bodies on the road won’t even be scooped up to be reported or just to clean up the damn street. He wasn’t too sure if he wanted the body gone or not. He wanted a reminder of his beautiful death. But he didn’t want to be reminded that this boy who welcomed death so confidently was dead. The difference was very clear in those.

He held his breath in preparation for the truth as he gripped the window sill harshly like yesterday. He looked down at the street. His eyes darted left and right. Nothing. Well not nothing. The dead animal carcasses were still there. So were the potholes. So were the trash, both human and plastic. But those have always been there. Where was the orange clad dead boy? 

Not even a trace of his spilled blood was there. He couldn’t believe how cleanly the body was taken. It was like there wasn’t even a dead boy there before. It was unbelievable. 

It should be that if the body was so cleanly taken there should be patches of lighter asphalt where his body should’ve been. It should be that the other carcasses were cleaned up too. But no. Everything else was where it should be. Except for the orange clad dead boy. It was like he didn't even happen. 

He thought for a while if the boy was only a figment of his imagination. But he pushed that thought aside since he was very trained in identifying real from unreal. The two were always present in his life, after all.

So it bothered him. So much that he couldn’t sleep even with his high fever. So much that he refused to leave the window sill until he gets some sort of answer. 

And in the daze that he was left in after subjecting himself to restless obsession, looming over the window sill, he was rewarded.

The streets were just cleaned of the innocents and it was back to the the monochrome scene. In his fevered vision, he couldn’t identify much of what exactly was transpiring. But what was good for him was that he still registered color well. And when something orange ruined, no, graced the black, gray and dirty white of the night, the Joker couldn’t believe it.

There he was again. Still the same orange parka with brown fur. Still the same matching orange pants. Still the same brown shin-high leather boots. It was like he had a reset button. The Joker was a cross between astonished and confused. He loved it though.

What sameness his appearance had, was what differentness his attitude now was. He was confident before. And looked like he was just gonna take life as it is, accept whatever and move on. Now he looked determined. He seemed to be worked up about something. 

Could it be that he wanted revenge? The punks from yesterday weren’t there today. But a couple of thugs were near it, smoking something possibly lethal.

He frowned at the thought that he was out for revenge. It seemed too boring. But then again, you wouldn’t think that a person you killed would come back and avenge his death himself, right? He kept watching the boy. Curious and obsessed. Why is he even alive?

The orange clad should-be-dead boy walked right on the train tracks. And he looked like he was trying to see as far as he could on both ends of the tracks. Was he checking if the train was coming? No. If he was, he should’ve done it before standing on the tracks. And then for some reason he kicked the lose carnage on it. Probably out of anger. After that he seemed to be thinking for a while, looking around like he was trying to be inspired by the things around him. And he stopped when he spotted the thugs just smoking around. And he walked directly at them. 

Which made him stop and think. What is this boy doing? Before he could make any connections, he heard a commotion down on the street.

Some mixture of ‘Hey!’, ‘What the hell?’ and other exclamations sounded loudly after an ear-splitting noise of glasses or bottles breaking. His feverish mind had only caught the tall figures pointing their guns at the boy. He kicked their still unopened beer bottles, all of it. And the thugs were very pissed. 

If he didn’t understand quickly, he would’ve guessed that the boy pissed himself in fear. But he knew he wasn’t scared of death. Apparently the boy was looking for it. His leather boots were damp with spilled beer and the ground beneath him was stained wet with alcohol as well. The guns clicking were a signal of ‘ready for carnage?’ to him. But the Joker couldn’t wait to see his expression again. 

Three shots reverberated through his ears. All three hit the kid. One in the shoulder. One in the stomach. One in the head. He went down with a low thud. Blood pooled underneath him but it wasn’t as bad as his first death. 

Now the Joker held his breath yet again.

The thugs were all so mad at their wasted beer. And there he was, lying dead, because he wanted it. He bet it annoyed the thugs that it was over so quickly. Like they wanted to hurt him even more. But he wasn’t there anymore. He had fled, technically. And he had the last laugh, in the Joker’s book at least.

So he wanted it. He was looking for it. Was death for this boy very pleasing that he went to get it every night? He laughed at how his thought seemed to connote something else. The Joker was caught in a trance, imagining the boy coming back again and dying very courageously and so sure of himself. He wanted to see it again. Hell, he wanted to do it himself! To kill him first-hand and see that very sure expression closely, that's what he wanted.

Taking one last glance at the orange clad dead again boy’s body lying on his side near the train tracks, he licked his lips in excitement. He went back to bed since his unexpected fix for the day was already done. Tomorrow he betted that he’d be back. And he’ll be watching. And very, very soon, he’ll be the one killing him. He’d be happy. The boy would be happy too. It was a good deal.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what this is. This has been in my laptop for over two years.


End file.
